Unconventionally Pretty
by ishrinkingviolet
Summary: Eli Goldsworthy is hell-bent on fixating on her flaws, and can list them off without giving much thought. It's until he sees her with his own eyes, that he realizes being unconventional doesn't always cancel out beauty. He also learns that he kind of says things without thinking.


**The song is "Remember" by Misty Miller, and I think it's the perfect cutesy song to accompany any kind of bright day. It's funny because it contrasts greatly with the theme of this story, but I think you should take a listen nonetheless. :)**

**Kind of fluffy, kind of raw, with no real plot line that could possibly make it a multi-chapter story. Editing my own work is hell, so ignore any stupid typos you may see. Maybe someday I'll post something that has been carefully looked over. Just not today.**

**Review if you'd like more one-shots like this!Also, feel free to just say "hello" too, because that would be kind of cool. :)**

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"My hands are red. They're red, is that supposed to happen?"

Eli peers at them, examining the reddish tinge and the prominent blue veins snaking through the flesh on her hands. They're obviously frozen and on the verge of getting frostbite. They would, wouldn't they?

The two of them are zipped-up snug in a cramped tent in the middle of nowhere, and Eli's doing his best to keep warm by frequently breathing onto his hands. It's pouring outside, and his ears feel numb peeking out beneath the wisps of his growing hair. He can't even begin to imagine how uncomfortable Clare might feel, sitting cross-legged on the other side of the tent with her cheeks turning ruddy. He's scrawny, but she's weaker than he is.

"I could take you home now, if you like," he says. "You can take a warm shower and find comfy clothes to wear."

She shakes her head, sliding her hands under her legs. "My step brother's home today."

"You could take a shower at my place. No one's home." His parents are out again. _Working late_, they say. They come home flush-faced and fumbling to get their coats undone, and yet, they insist the office is making them stay late. It's because to them, Eli is still five years old and clutching his teddy, worrying about where his parents were.

Clare cocks her head to the side. Inside, Eli wonders exactly how he sounds when he says it. He wonders if his voice betrays what he's thinking inside his head, or if it sounds as suggestive as he thinks he does. Most of all, he wonders what Clare's thinking when she's tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She takes a pregnant pause, as if it's deliberate.

_She isn't pretty. That was never the initial thought for Eli, the fact that she's pretty. For many reasons, Clare Edwards isn't pretty, and it starts with her nose. It's cute and round like a button, just as his mom would say, but Eli often thinks it is just like a ball in the center of her face. It doesn't have that sharp ski-slope curve to it, and it isn't defined. If you look close enough, there is a sprinkle of light freckles all over it that makes it different from all the other noses in the world. Last time he counted, there were thirteen altogether. It looks like a nose that belongs to a kid, not a sixteen- year old girl. The nose keeps him counting the freckles anyway, though._

"I have the soap you like in my bathroom," he adds. The little pink thing that smells like Clare. He bought it at the drugstore as soon as she started leaving stuff at his house. There's a drawer filled with her things in his bedroom, and so he figured having her soap isn't a far-cry. She probably has shampoo at Adam's house or something.

_Her tummy is a little round and soft, though not in the jelly- squishy kind of way. It's the kind tummy that you want to pepper with butterfly kisses and whisper secrets to. Secrets like I should be doing my homework now, but instead I'm giving you with fluttery kisses. Then she'll giggle and wiggle around, and you wonder if she can hear you through her belly button. Eli wonders if she can really hear what he's saying, or if maybe it's just in his head._

They're not dating, by the way. Some may speculate otherwise, but he knows the answer.

"Do you have white fluffy towels too?" she asks innocently, knowing all too well that those kinds of towels are sitting neatly in his closet as they speak. He nods, and her eyes light up like none other. "I like those."

"I know you do," he says quietly, eyes glazing over.

"I know you know I do." She grins.

"Don't be a smartass Clare," he scolds teasingly, wrapping his fingers around her ankle. Her eyes widen, and he commits a perfectly crooked smirk. "One day that's going to get you into- _trouble._" Simultaneously, he yanks on her leg, causing her to slide towards him in a rough manner. Her legs are spread very wide, and he adjusts himself so he neatly in between them. With an angelic smile, it's as if a halo appeared atop his head.

_ In the morning her hair is a wild, disheveled mess, all sprawled out on her pink pillow. It's kind of unconventional, a little bit off-beat because of its bizarre shape, but completely free-spirited. Most days, he just sits cross-legged on her bed and watches her get ready. He likes watching her run around with one sock in her hand, flannel pajama bottoms slung low on her hips. Trying to find her hairbrush while imploring him not to arrive so early next time. He'll promise that he wouldn't next time, but he always does. The pastel yellow walls that environ them always welcome him here, regardless of what time of day._

_Now, Eli is just like any other teenage boy with teenage needs. He sees the allure of conventionally pretty girls, those with slender legs like Imogen Moreno and long shiny hair like Fiona Coyne. The girls with scintillating bronze skin like Bianca DeSousa, girls with washboard-flat tummies like Katie Maitlin. You mustn't think of him as some troglodyte who hasn't seen girls that are easy on the eyes. He's seen his share. He knows what's out there. He knows Clare is not like those girls. _

_And in addition to these physical flaws, he can think of two more things about her that upsets and frustrates him. Sometimes these things make him angry at her._

_When Clare's feeling despondent, she doesn't like to talk to anyone. Her eyes turn into a sorrowful tinge of grey, and she just wants to be alone all the time. Her skin looks worn. Aged. She wears shapeless black sweaters and tries to blend into the wall. There are dark purple rings under her eyes, and when he pops into her bedroom in the mornings, she just tells him she's feeling ill. Eli's her best friend, so he knows when she's lying, but he just nods and tell her he's sorry. Initially, it makes him sad because she's sad, and he'll bring her a baggie of gummy candies the next day to alleviate that sadness. _

_Silly Eli, candy can't cure gloom._

_He brings it to her anyway, and sometimes she'll eat it and smile. It makes his heart swell up a tiny bit to see it, but it's a dashing moment. A flicker of a light that's gone before you can take it in. This drags on for weeks, and those weeks are the bane of his existence- school's hell without Clare poking his cheek to keep him awake. Lunchtime conversations with Adam's friends are idiotic and a waste of his time. He wants Clare to make insightful observations no one else but he cares about. He wants her to tell him how nice it would they if they had a car that could fly them away. How wonderful it would be to escape the one-block wide world they live in, and experience more of what life could give them. She doesn't, of course, and she sits alone by a tree. She'll never tell him what's wrong. "They sky's a little dark today," she'll say, inclining her head. That's her excuse, but nine out of ten times, the sky is a bright and beautiful azure colour._

"You're a bully, you know," she huffs, pulling down her sweater dress. It has risen up a few inches above her knees, where the fabric of her leggings is most sheer. She pulls her legs up to her chest, resting her chin on her knees. "A downright bully. You'll get arrested one day, and I won't be the one to bail you out."

She's subtly referring to the somewhat illicit crimes he's committed, but doesn't talk about.

"I only bully you," he says with a grin. "_Promise."_

_Clare's also scared of a lot of things- most of which are stupid, in his opinion. She's afraid of spiders and heights and clowns and cats and being lonely. She doesn't mind being alone, but she hates to be lonely. Escalators freak her out, and she always draws attention to herself by clutching onto the railing with a vice-tight grip. She's terrified of any stray animal, and sometimes thunderstorms in the night. Clare also doesn't use computers much because…well, viruses frighten her a bit. _

_She was never conventional or rational. Not even in the least._

"Do we leave the tent here then?" she asks, referring to the ratty old thing they found sitting on the field. It's dark grey and tattered in random places, and smells kind of like the trash room in his apartment. But it doesn't bother her all that much. Clare likes dingy places like this, despite how prim and proper she looks most of the time. She's not afraid of getting a little dirty.

He snorts in his head. _Dirty. _He only wishes it was true in every sense.

"There's not enough room in your drawer to fit this thing, Clare. Would you mind terribly having to leave it here?"

"You wouldn't bring it home for me, anyway," she sighed, getting to her feet. She brushes off the dirt that collected on her bottom, and slides out. Eli doesn't hesitate to follow, and son they find themselves traipsing in the rain- or wandering really, considering in the most technical term, they have a destination.

"Do you think I'm pretty, Eli?" she asks, arms outstretched as she walks across a log. He steps over fallen tree trunks and narrow steams, trudging through patches of yellow grass beside her. She looks kind of graceful, even with the rain pounding down on them. Water droplets are trickling down her chin and temples, and her curls are plastered across her forehead. A graceful drowned rat, Clare is.

He doesn't answer at once, mulling over many possible answers. He carefully considers them all, and shoves his wet hands deep in his pockets.

"It's right over there," he jerks his head over to the short apartment in view.

She nods. "I see it."

They file inside, Eli opening the door for her first. They pad across the lobby and wait for the elevator to arrive, ignoring the dirty looks they were receiving from the janitor. It's easier than it seems, blocking out outsiders' speculation; practice and differentiation helps a lot. They're both pariahs, after all, shrinking violets and wallflowers in every sense of being. He and Clare fidget and rock back and forth on the balls of their feet until the 'ding' jars their attention.

"Crazy kids," a grumpy voice mumbles in the background.

Eli smirks as they walk in.

"So what do you think?"

"Floor six," he says, pushing the button. The metal doors shut before them, and his stomach lurches upwards. Then downwards. You can't get used to something like this.

"Eli," Clare frowns, sounding upset. She's not stupid; she knows he's hedging,

"I don't know what you want me to say, Clare. If you know what you are, there shouldn't be any reason for me to tell you."

"I know you have an opinion," she says pointedly, as he unlocks the door. The small, rusted silver key he carries around in his back pocket is jammed into the keyhole and twisted roughly. The door is pushed open, revealing a meagre sitting area with the TV still on. It's probably some bad sitcom his mom was watching before she left for work. The dirty dishes in the sink are his dad's, and the stack of CDs resting against the wall are all his. Clare's seen it all before, so she isn't fazed by the mess. "It's a simple yes or no answer, Elijah."

He winces. "Don't do that. You know I hate it."

"It seems like I know a lot," she says observantly, flittering off to his room. Her ruined shoes are left neatly in the corner, and with a sigh, he kicks off his own and sets them next to it. "Elijah," she adds from down the hall, a teasing humour lacing through her voice.

"Stop that. I know where you live," he threatens, heading to his bedroom. "I-"

There's a trail of clothing left behind-. Her black leggings first, then her sweater dress, and then what looks to be an itty-bitty camisole she had worn underneath. Streaks of water weave in and out through the narrow hall floor, and there are footprints in a pattern. Quirking a brow, he gathers her clothing in his arms, warily following the trail.

Upon entering his room, he hears his shower start. There is some off-key singing, and he can't help but smirk again.

He balks at the sight of pink underwear, laying inside-out by his bathroom door. Next to it is her bra, virgin-white and abandoned. His throat grows dry, and he can't seem to swallow.

"Clare, you're leaving a mess," he calls out in a raspy voice, trying with no avail to clear his throat.

"_Do you remember me? I was the girl about five- foot three,_" she sings through the pounding water. "_Do you remember my eyes, blue, blue as the skies? Do you remember my dress, the blue one with the white flowers? But it got all wet, cause of the April showers."_

Eli rolls his eyes, smiling nervously at the crack she left open. He shakes his head as he collects the rest of her clothes, intending to drop them all off into the dryer.

Clare Edwards is eclectic like that, so unpredictable and hard to detect a pattern with. Maybe that's why he stuck around for so long. Maybe it's because she keeps him on his toes. She always keeps him guessing, keeps him wondering of her thoughts and intentions. He hums quietly to herself as he carries out his work, dropping off her clothes and then proceeding to find the white towels she like so much. The dryer is old and it might take a while longer, so he's thinking of getting some comfy clothes for her to borrow. Some warm sweatpants, maybe, and perhaps his favourite long-sleeve shirt.

The water turns off, and his leisurely pace turns into a hurried shuffle in a second. "Hang on, I'm coming!"

"Hanging on," she calls in a sing-song voice.

"I have your towel," he breathes, rushing straight into the bathroom. "I have- where are you?"

The shower is empty, as is the rest of the room.

Clare giggles. "In here!"

Eli exits the bathroom, confusedly searching around for the girl. That's when he sees it- the mass of re-curling, rain-darken hair atop an ivory height. He sees her snowy white back, short, curvy legs, and her feet tippy-toeing on a step-stool. Her shoulders are bare, pristine, and completely untouched. She's looking out the window with her back to him, seemingly engrossed by a sight. His mouth is agape, and his heart- an emptiness occupying his chest- begins to race very quickly. There's blood pooling in his cheeks.

He's alive.

"I uhm…I have…" he trails off, forgetting what he was here for. He's staring, and he can't help it.

"It stopped raining," she says musing, pointing at the glass. Clare turns slightly, beckoning him forward. A curious expression is on her face. "Come look. There's a rainbow."

He obliges, first stumbling over his own feet. _Left, right, left, right- it shouldn't be this difficult. _But it is, and he's still staring.

"You have a nice ass," he blurts, slapping a hand over his mouth. Oh my God, he did not just say that out loud.

_Aijdsfigjsidfj._

"I mean, it's a nice rainbow," he tries desperately to cover up.

Clare smiles.

"Your breasts are nice, too."

Oh God. He was a babbling idiot. Well, what did she expect him to do, after seeing her like this? Nobly keep his gaze eye-level and make polite conversation about the weather? The towel feels taut in his hands, and he's suddenly reluctant to give it to her. He doesn't. He won't.

The she shivers, and he hands it to her in defeat. At least he has a nice mental image engraved in his head.

_Her nose is a ball and her belly is round and her hair is dripping wet. She's still got too many freckles and her skin is blindingly pale. _

But with a sinking realization, he realizes he likes all these things.

"I don't think you're pretty," he says, yanking the towel out of her hands. He looks straight into her confused eyes, her questioning eyes, and really looks. There's sadness hidden beneath the blue, so staggeringly raw and powerful.

"I know, "she whispers despondently. "I-"

"I think you're beautiful."

Eli blushes, shyly gazing at her through his eyelashes.


End file.
